


Scorned

by DragonsPhoenix



Series: Lotus in Muddy Water [2]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Jossverse
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-03
Updated: 2010-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-07 00:20:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonsPhoenix/pseuds/DragonsPhoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As she pinned the comb in her hair, whiteness snaked out from the comb, bleaching her hair. She screamed, arching forward as she fell into the sea. Twisting under the waves, she writhed under the water, as if scrabbling for escape. Her hand reached upward but was unable to break through the surface. With a final grimace, she relaxed into the sea's cold embrace. As her feet touched down to the bottom, white locks drifted in the current. The moon drifted across the horizon and was close to setting before she moved again. Her eyes opened and looked up from below the sea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my most awesome betas: [deird1](http://deird1.livejournal.com/), for making sure Wesley and Aidan didn't do anything totally unBritish; and [diebirchen](http://diebirchen.livejournal.com/) who had the agonizing job of checking my grammar and telling me when what I wrote just didn't make sense - she put in a lot of work, which I very much appreciate.
> 
> Petra Hyde Burnand was Faith's previous Watcher, the one killed by Kakistos. 
> 
> The Narbon XL-7 is named after Helen Narbon from the most excellent comic, [Narbonic](http://narbonic.com/).
> 
> The song Faith sings in Wesley's car is “Strange Phenomena” by Kate Bush. 
> 
> Much like Brigit, I couldn't resist the scene from Young Frankenstein. 
> 
> The gag with the spilt milk in the kitchen is from the original Pink Panther movie (Peter Sellers version).

Deepwater, Connecticut extends out from its center, a tourist town on the shore of the Atlantic, through homes ranging from merely moderately-expensive to ultra-expensive and onto more private stretches of beach. It was in one of those more secluded spots, an area that had belonged to a limited and related number of families for generations, that the woman, a mere girl really, no more than twenty, strode towards the sea. By the expression on her face, it was clear that fury gripped her heart as tightly as her white knuckled-hand clenched her bag. 

A few feet from the shoreline she stopped, so lost in her misery that she didn't even notice how her hand had started cramping. Her jaw tightened as she gazed out over the water. “Bastard.” Her scream was echoed by the cries of the gulls flying overhead. Undressing quickly as if her clothes were scalding her, she discarded them were they fell. Putting her hands to the bun on the back of her head, she let the pins drop onto the beach until her auburn hair hung down to her hips. The wind picked up and wisped her hair about as though snakes were writhing around her head. 

Kneeling down, she pulled a candle and a knife out of a bag. At the edge of the shore, where the waves washed against the sand, she lit the candle and left it behind. She was hip deep into the water before she stopped to slash a cut across the palm of her left hand. Yanking off her engagement ring, she dropped it on top of the wound. “Be'thatet” she cried out, chanting in a tongue that hadn't been a living language in over a thousand generations. The candle flame flickered wildly and then went out. She opened her hand, and the ring was gone, replaced by a comb showing three waves before the sun. The stones, making up the three stylized waves that decorated the comb, shifted in color so that they seemed to ebb and flow with the waves at her feet. As the comb's red sun darkened, she thought of a setting sun. “Perfect, the end of the day to reflect the end of his life.” 

As she pinned the comb in her hair, whiteness snaked out from the comb, bleaching her hair. She screamed, arching forward as she fell into the sea. Twisting under the waves, she writhed under the water, as if scrabbling for escape. Her hand reached upward but was unable to break through the surface. With a final grimace, she relaxed into the sea's cold embrace. As her feet touched down to the bottom, white locks drifted in the current. The moon drifted across the horizon and was close to setting before she moved again. Her eyes opened and looked up from below the sea. 

As she crawled out onto the shore, one final wave washed over her, leaving her dressed in a gown as dark as the sea. She stood uncertainly, as if she wasn't sure what legs were for, and then she began walking over the dark, wet sand. After she'd traveled a bit over a mile, she spotted a man sitting on a rock, smoking something sweet smelling. “You're not him, but you'll do for a start,” she whispered before calling out with a sound that wasn't quite whale song. It sank into him, drowning any part of him that might fight her until he couldn't resist her call. The song reeled him in. When she saw the terror in his eyes, she smiled, showing teeth so sharp they weren't even close to human. Reaching her cold hands out to him, she pulled him into the sea with her, dragging him down under the water until the last of his air bubbled its way to the surface, vanishing in the crashing of waves. 

* * * 

Faith couldn't believe that Aidan had dragged her back to Boston, to the townhouse that her new Watcher apparently thought he could take over lock, stock, and barrel. Wes was clumsy where Petra – her real Watcher – had been calm, skittish where Petra had been assured, and an asshole where . . . well, Petra could be a real bitch at times. Maybe it was a Watcher thing, although in that case, you'd think Aidan would be arrogant too. Not that he was really a Watcher, but there was some sort of connection there, and he was Petra's cousin. Aidan wasn't much like Petra though. He had an economy of movement that told Faith that she'd be hard pressed to beat him in a fight, even if he was old enough to be Wesley's father. 

As they left the townhouse, Wesley was working out how to get Faith back to Boston and under his firm control within the week or, well, within two or three weeks at most. His thoughts were interrupted by Faith's exclamation. “Tell me this isn't your car.” 

“The Infinity Q45 is a perfectly serviceable vehicle,” Wesley told her, while wondering if all Slayers were so difficult. 

“It looks like something my granny would drive, if she were still around, that is,” Faith said. “You sure I can't ride with you?” Faith asked as she traced a finger over the sleek shell of Aidan's Narbon XL-7, the most brutally beautiful motorcycle she'd ever seen. 

Aidan shook his head but only said, “Let's get on the road.” 

Wesley handed her a map. “If you could find Deepwater, that would be most helpful.” 

Faith shoved the map back at him. “Aidan wrote down the directions for you.” 

“Faith,” he said condescendingly, “neither a Watcher nor his Slayer can ever be over-prepared.” 

Rolling her eyes, Faith got into the passenger seat, leaving Wesley to try and refold the map. Wesley carefully refolded the map, glaring at Faith all the while, and then pointedly reached over her to place it in the glove compartment. As he pulled the car away from the curb, Wesley started in on a litany of complaints. After a mere five minutes of this barrage, Faith wasn't sure she'd even make it out of Massachusetts, much less all the way to Connecticut. “And I do not understand why you called in an outsider in the first place. I assure you that training with a Watcher is more than adequate to prepare a Slayer for any demons she might face.” 

Faith reached over and turned on the radio. _Big band?_ she asked herself. _How'd he even find a station that plays this crap?_ Turning the dial to WFNX, she sang along, drowning out Wesley's complaints with, “We raise our hats to the strange phenomena. Soul birds of a feather flock together.” 

Wesley turned off the radio with an angry jerk of his hand. “Are you listening to a single word I'm saying?” 

“Trying not to,” she replied honestly. 

“You may not take your responsibilities seriously, but I can assure you that I–“ Faith leaned out the window until she couldn't hear him anymore. 

* * * 

Leaping out of the car as soon as it hit the driveway, Faith raced to the house, getting only a glimpse of white walls and pillars in her haste to escape. She slowed down enough that she was merely jogging up the three steps to the oval porch. The door opened, and a dark-haired woman carrying an umbrella, walked out. “Hi, you must be Faith. I'm Brigit, Aidan's assistant.” 

Faith ran a hand through her hair to hide her surprise. When Aidan had said his assistant was a widow, Faith had pictured the crazy cat lady who'd lived down the street when she was a kid. Brigit did seem to be a bit odd, carrying an umbrella on a sunny afternoon, but she certainly wasn't old. She looked a few years older and had a slighter build than Faith, and her hair, which was as dark as Faith's, was also straighter, curling only slightly where it ended at her neck. Her top, a bright red sleeveless bit of fabric, hung comfortably over her blue jeans. While Faith tended to be uncomfortable around new people, Brigit's impish grin put her at ease. 

A voice drifted down from above them. “Hi.” 

“Claire,” Brigit said lazily, as Faith jerked her head up to see a girl leaning so far over a railing that Faith couldn't figure out what was keeping her from crashing to the ground. 

“Hey,” came another voice from above. “I want to see them too.” 

“Meet you down there,” Claire replied. She vanished but then reappeared as she flipped down to hang from a post at the edge of the porch before dropping to the ground. 

“Hi,” she said, holding a hand out to Faith. “I'm Claire.” 

“So I gathered. Wanna tell me how you did that?” 

“Gymnastics.” Claire, a young teen with blond hair, was small enough to make her comment seem plausible. 

“Don't show off,” Aidan said, coming around from behind them. 

“Oh, come on, Uncle Aidan,” she said. “I've got to keep in practice.” 

As another girl stepped out the front door, Brigit introduced her sister, Grace. The girl was close to Claire in age, with Brigit's dark hair, although her features were finer. Just as Grace seemed about to speak, she was interrupted by Wesley, who was dragging three large suitcases, which crashed into each other at every step. 

“Can I help?” Claire asked, bouncing down the steps. 

Wesley looked up, surprised. While he'd been pulling the bags out of the car, he'd been too caught up in his fury to notice what was going on. 

“It's all right,” Brigit said, misinterpreting his expression. “Your bags will be safe, I promise. Grace, why don't you help too.” She led her sister down the steps, joining Wesley on the walkway. 

“But I–,” he protested as the girls took his bags away from him. 

“And you?” Brigit asked Faith. “Do you need help?” 

Faith nodded towards the bag of weapons in her right hand and gave a tug on the strap of her backpack. “Nah, I'm good.” 

As the girls vanished into the house with the bags, Wesley reached out a hand. He was about to follow when a spate of giggles, obviously coming from the girls, stopped him in his tracks. 

“I'll be in my study. Anything interesting while I was gone?” Aidan asked Brigit. 

“Nothing definitive.” He nodded to acknowledge her response and headed into the house. “Dinner's in two hours,” she called after him. When he didn't respond, she rolled her eyes. 

“Did you say something about food?” Faith asked. “'Cause I'm starved.” 

“Sure,” Brigit replied. “We'll get you two settled in, and then get you a snack.” 

Turning to Wesley, she gave him a quick once-over, and then, hitching up one shoulder as if she had a slightly hunched back, she told him to “walk this way” as she clumped up the three steps, leading with her right foot while leaning on the umbrella as if it were a cane. At the top step, she repeated the phrase while waving the umbrella at Wesley. “Walk _this_ way.” 

Exhausted from his rage at Faith, Wesley shook his head a bit, as if not quite understanding what was being asked of him. He repeated Brigit's motion, limping up a step and leaning on the umbrella. Faith burst out laughing as he took the second step. He glared up at her and then glanced down at the umbrella that he was using as a cane. Standing up straight, he shoved the umbrella at Brigit and stormed into the house. 

Brigit rushed in to find him standing just inside the entryway, between the dining and living rooms, looking around as if lost. “I don't suppose you could show me to my room without any more shenanigans,” he asked. 

“I am sorry,” Brigit said, trying to make amends as Faith laughed in the doorway. “A bunch of us went to see _Young Frankenstein_ at the Playhouse last weekend, and I wanted to see if the gag would really work.” 

“Don't worry about it,” Wesley said with a distracted air. He'd noticed that nobody had invited them in although given that it was mid-afternoon, he and Faith obviously couldn't be vampires. He was starting to wonder who lived in the house and how much they knew. It could prove tricky, keeping Faith's status as the Slayer a secret. On the other hand, perhaps the Council would allow him to remove Faith from Aidan's supervision if they knew of all the laypeople in his home. 

“Bedrooms are upstairs,” Brigit said. Turning to Faith, she added, “You can store your weapons downstairs, just off of the training room, if you like.” 

“Um, thanks, but no thanks. I'd rather keep them with me, if you don't mind,” Faith replied. 

In response, Brigit gestured towards the staircase. Faith started up, and Wesley, with a bland “Ladies first,” brought up the rear. 

“You get a lot of guests carrying weapons?” Faith asked. 

“Oh yes,” Brigit replied cheerfully, “given Aidan's interest in the martial arts, and of course I expected you to have your own.” 

“Oh yeah, why's that?” Faith asked absentmindedly. 

“Because you're the Slayer.” 

“What?” Wesley shouted. Rushing to join Brigit on the second floor, he whispered, “What makes you think– That information is _highly_ confidential.” 

Brigit took a step back. “Aidan's books are full of Slayer lore.” 

“And he told you that Faith is the Slayer?” Wesley whispered violently. When Brigit didn't respond, he continued with, “What reason could he possibly have– I don't suppose he's kept that information from his friends, neighbors, and, oh, those girls.” 

Brigit shrugged uncomfortably. 

“He told those children that Faith is the Slayer?” Wesley asked, sounding shocked. 

“No,” Brigit said, defending her boss. “It's just that Claire's training is in demonology,” she said, glancing towards Faith as if for approval. Something in Faith's face reassured her, and she continued more confidently. “Along with demon identification, she's being taught how to recognize the Slayer.” 

“Why would he even–” Wesley started to sputter. With a look of determination, he added, “Take me to Mr. Taylor this instant.” 

“Of course,” Brigit replied in a monotone. “Mr. Wyndam-Price, your room is two doors down. Faith,” she added in a friendlier voice, “yours is right here. After you've dropped your things off, come down to the kitchen, and we'll see about getting you a snack.” 

“Um, yeah,” Faith replied, wondering how much she'd be able to hear of what was being said in the study from the kitchen. 

* * * 

Dinner was so uncomfortable that Faith almost dragged her plate up to her bedroom, but the formality of the dining room – it had it's own cabinet just for plates and was lit by a fucking chandelier – and Aidan's we-are-not-amused manner kept her in her seat. 

Wesley reminded her of her previous Watcher, Petra; whenever they were pissed off, instead of letting that anger out, they each got unbelievably polite. 

“Mr. Taylor, would you please pass the salt?” Wesley asked. 

Aidan, obviously lost in thought, didn't respond. 

“Here you go,” Claire chirped, handing the salt to Wesley. 

“Thank you.” Wesley's words were so clipped that even the girls picked up on it. Claire gave an uncertain glance towards Grace who shrugged in response. 

_Collateral damage_ , Faith thought. _It's me he's mad at, not you._

“You're welcome,” Claire whispered, staring down at her food. 

When Wesley put it down, the click of the salt shaker against the table was the loudest thing in the room. 

“What do you do for fun around here?” Faith asked, trying to lighten the mood. 

“You are not here to have fun,” Wesley informed her. 

“Hey, all work and no play, right?” Faith asked. 

“My family has a big get-together for the 4th,” Brigit offered. “You, I mean both of you of course, would be more than welcome.” 

Faith could tell Wesley was about to decline, probably for the both of them. “We're in,” she said. “Come on Wes,” she added. “Show the rebel Americans how it's done.” Wesley sputtered for a moment, obviously searching for a polite way out, but then reluctantly agreed. 

The way he carefully avoided looking at Faith for the rest of the meal told her that he was planning to tear into her in private as soon as dinner was over with the same old litany she'd had more than enough of in the car. So, she slipped into the kitchen at the end of the meal, pretending she was going to help Brigit bring in dessert. Instead she'd hightailed it up the stairs, but apparently not quite as stealthily as she'd have liked. Either that or Wesley was smarter than she'd given him credit for. He found her on the stairs just as she was half-way up and chased her to the second floor. Faith raced into the bathroom and shut the door with a slam, but she knew he wasn't giving up. Time for a bit of misdirection. 

Faith turned on the shower with her left hand while sniffing her right armpit. Deciding a real shower could wait, she clambered out the window and over the roof to her bedroom. From her backpack she pulled out a dark shirt, cut to show off her tits, and a pair of black jeans. After a quick change, she fluffed her hair and climbed back out onto the roof. Faith was just about to jump to the ground when she remembered the shower. _If Aidan is anything like Petra_ , she thought, _he'll have my head for leaving that water running_. With a shrug, she slipped in through the bathroom window and then blotted her lipstick before turning the shower off. “Don't give your enemy a chance to predict your actions,” she told herself, repeating Petra's words. Leaping to the ground, she ran off towards the beach. 

About two minutes later, on an empty stretch of shore, Faith stopped. Looking at the sea, she concentrated on the sound, which was faint but definitely there. Faith shivered, not from the cool night air, but from the eeriness of the drawn-out tones. She listened until the sound faded completely away.


	2. Chapter 2

Pulling the covers off himself neatly, Wesley sat up in the bed. He couldn't sleep. The conversation with Mr. Taylor hadn't gone well, and he kept reviewing it, hoping to work out how he could have handled the man better. The curt reminder that Mr. Taylor was no longer a member of the Council, and therefore couldn't give a fig what Quentin Travers would think, had been decidedly unfair. He certainly hadn't meant it that way, and the suggestion that he should learn to stand on his own two feet had been undeserved. 

Standing, Wesley put on a robe to cover his bedclothes. He looked down at his socked feet. Inexplicably, he'd lost one slipper in the move. “I suppose socks will have to do,” he sighed, hoping it wouldn't be terribly inappropriate. 

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, the dining room was dark, but there seemed to be a light coming from the kitchen. He felt like creeping back up the stairs, afraid of another confrontation with Mr. Taylor, but then he recalled Dr. Urquhart's lectures from his first Council class. “A Watcher must be prepared for anything.” Wesley raised himself up taller and, with a shake of his head, prepared to enter the lion's den. A pair of high-pitched giggles emerged from the room, and Wesley took a step back before peering around the entryway into the dining room. Since he couldn't see into the kitchen, it wasn't a particularly useful move. 

The scent of popcorn wafting through the air, reminded him of his school days. Well, young ladies couldn't be all that different from the lads, now could they? When he walked into the kitchen, Grace stood at the stove, shaking some sort of pan that was inexplicably covered in tinfoil, which was expanding upwards into a sphere. Claire, sitting on top of the counter that formed an island in the middle of the kitchen, was flipping a knife back and forth, from hidden under her wrist to an attack position. “Oh, my,” Wesley heard himself saying. 

Grace turned her head but kept shaking the pan, while Claire sheathed the knife and jumped off the counter. “Mr. Wyndam-Pryce?” she asked. 

“Your knife work is amazing,” he said. “I'm afraid I always manage to cut myself when I try to work with knives.” 

Claire smiled and hung her head as if embarrassed. “Thanks. Most people think I'm a bit strange, with the weapon training and all.” 

“Oh, I know exactly what you mean,” Wesley replied. “Outside of the Watcher fami– well, a lot of, um, outsiders tended to think I was strange, when I was younger that is.” In an attempt to distract the girls from his slip of the tongue regarding Watchers, he asked, “How long have you been training?” 

“For the past five years,” Claire said. “My parents thought that Uncle Aidan needed something to keep his mind off Aunt Abby after she passed away. Somehow I was volunteered, and I've been training here every summer since.” 

Wesley thought back to Brigit's comment that this girl was being trained in demonology. His lips tightened into a grim line. “Ah yes. Training.” 

As Grace started pouring out the popcorn from a tear she'd made in the tin foil, Claire went on. “The knife is nice, of course, but what I really love are swords. Have you trained with a sword?” 

“Well, yes, but I–“ Wesley started to say, before he was interrupted by Grace, spelling out the word kissing in a sing-song chant. He wasn't certain what she meant but began to feel uncomfortable. 

“So, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce,” Grace said. “What's your first name?” 

“Well, um, Wesley.” 

“Can we call you that 'cause Wyndam-Pryce? That's a mouthful.” 

“Grace,” Claire warned. 

“What?” Grace said, shaking her head at Claire. Turning back to Wesley, she asked, “Would you like to watch a movie with us? It's Beverly Hills Ninja.” 

“Um, no thank you. I was hoping for some warm milk. If there is any – milk, that is,” he said, looking around the kitchen helplessly. 

“Pots and pans are over here,” Claire said, reaching into a cupboard next to the stove and pulling out a small pot, “and mugs are over there. The milk is in the fridge.” She pointed to the refrigerator as if Wesley wouldn't be able to find it on his own and then blushed when she realized what she'd done. 

While Wesley poured milk into a mug, the girls grabbed so much junk food to take with them that he was certain they were going to make themselves ill. 

“Not so tall, but definitely dark, and not too ugly, if you like geeks,” Grace whispered to Claire, but loudly enough that Wesley could hear. He blushed, and then hoped that neither of them had noticed. They couldn't be talking about him, could they? Certainly not, they were much too young. 

“Grace, I swear I'll–“ The rest of Claire's whispers faded into the distance. 

As Wesley leaned forward to peer through the doorway, following the girls with his eyes, his hand, holding the mug of milk, tilted forward with his body, until he noticed he was spilling the milk on the floor. He scanned the area, looking for something to mop it up. Not finding anything, he dabbed the toe of his sock towards the spill, as if that might sop it up. 

Keeping an eye on the spilled milk, Wesley backed up until he was standing against the counter. My Slayer thinks I'm useless, he thought. Calling in Mr. Taylor, who hasn't been associated with the Council in over a decade! I've made a terrible start with him; his secretary thinks nothing of mocking me, and those girls . . . He didn't know what the girls thought of him, but he was certain it wasn't complimentary. 

I'd better get this cleaned up before anyone else comes along to make fun of me. As he looked around again for a mop, he saw Brigit standing in the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen. Too late, he thought. Wrapping himself in as much dignity as he could, Wesley said, “I'm afraid there's been a bit of a spill, but I can't seem to find a mop.” 

Instead of mocking him as he'd expected, Brigit came round the counter. Looking down at the spill, she said, “Oh, that won't need a mop. A couple of rags will do.” Opening a drawer, she pulled out two tea towels. 

When Brigit knelt down to clean the spill, Wesley knelt as well, almost knocking her on the head. “No, it was my mistake. I should clean it up.” 

Handing him the towels, she said, “I'll get your milk started.” When he just gawked at her, she added, “You did want it warmed up, didn't you?” 

“How did you know?” 

She held up his mug. “I guessed that if you wanted it cold, you'd drink it from a glass.” 

While Wesley wiped up the spill, she started warming up the milk. When he was finished, Wesley stood, two damp towels in his hand, and looked around the kitchen until Brigit said, “There's a laundry chute just past the pantry.” 

When he turned back towards the main part of the kitchen, Brigit asked, “Would you like your milk spiced up? We have cinnamon, nutmeg, allspice, and actually a host of others if you'd like something exotic.” 

“Oh, nutmeg, please,” Wesley said with a small, hopeful smile. 

“Here you go,” she said, grabbing into a small cupboard and tossing a jar over. Wesley juggled the jar for a few moments with a look of pure terror on his face, until he had it stable in his hands. “Sorry,” Brigit said, looking abashed. “I wasn't thinking how exhausted you must be.” After Wesley muttered something polite, she said, “Aidan likes a ship-shape house. I can stick around and wash the pot after you're done with it, if you'd like to get back to bed right away.” 

Wesley relaxed a bit. Perhaps the whole world wasn't allied against him. “Ah, no thank you,” he said. “I'm rather a stickler for cleanliness myself.” 

“Good night, then.” 

* * *

As he pissed into the reeds, Luke took care, even in his buzzed state, to keep his sneakers, a new pair of black Reeboks, out of the stream. Zipping up his jeans, which were worn just enough to be perfectly comfortable, he shouted out to the crowd back by the bonfire, “Gotta lay off the beer.” 

“Nah,” his buds called back as one. As Luke shook his head in laughter, his blond hair whisked against his neck. The chick he'd hooked up with, Faith, turned and gave him a seductive look. Thinking she must be chilly and in need of warming in that skimpy black top, he started heading toward the fire just as one of the townies who'd crashed the party ran his bottle down her arm. Luke's eyes narrowed as Faith shivered and gave the guy a smile. 

Luke hadn't taken more than three steps when a song, so faint that it seemed barely more than a buzzing in his ear, stopped him cold. He shook his head, trying to clear it. When he looked up again, there was a haze in the air that hadn't been there a moment ago. The fire seemed to be miles away. He reached a hand out, but no one seemed to notice him. The song, which was coming from the sea, had become louder and was drowning out the noise of the party. Turning to the ocean, he scanned the beach, but saw only scattered rocks and the waves that crashed against the shore. The music reminded him of whale song, but something about it made him think it was being forced out of a human throat. Its eerie echoes drew him forward, step by step, against his will. 

A silhouette at the shoreline caught his eye. As he was pulled closer, all he could see was one long braid, pale white but intertwined with something thin and dark. When he'd been fifteen, he'd found the spine of a fish at Sandy Point: bleached bones with seaweed clinging to them. The braid reminded him of those bones. 

The music washed away his thoughts like waves covering up footsteps in the sand until there was nothing but the figure and the solitary song. When he was just a few feet away, the figure turned, and he could that see it was a woman, her dress draped down so far that it washed back and forth against her ankles like the waves washing against the shore. It's color also shifted, from the dark brown of the sand beneath her feet to the heavy blackness of the sea behind her. Scattered across her dress was lace that seemed to be patterned after the foam left in the wake of the waves as they were drawn back into the sea. Her eyes, as gray as storm clouds, held no welcome. A large comb was worked into her hair. Its three stylized waves in varying shades of electric blue were toped by silver whitecaps and, above that, a reddish-orange sun. She held out one pale hand out, palm facing him. As her long fingers curled into a fist, he felt them reeling him in. 

“What's up, babe?” He jumped, startled, and turned to see a confused blur of black hair and clothes, pale white skin, and red, red lips moving between him and the woman. He blinked, trying to see clearly. Faith. It was Faith. “Boy toy here is taken,” she said, grabbing his hand and dragging him back to the fire, “but I'm sure you could find somebody who'd go for that whole washed out look.” 

He stumbled along behind her, feeling slightly dazed. “Come on,” she said, pulling him closer. “One of your buds set up a beer bong.” 

“All right,” he said, trying for his usual enthusiasm. It sounded half-hearted to his ears, but Faith didn't seem to notice. When he glanced back, unable to resist one last look at the woman, the beach was empty. Shivering, he pulled closer to Faith's fire as they walked through the darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

A little more than three hours later, Faith dressed herself quietly, not even giving Luke, who was snoring under a sheet, a second glance. Slipping out the back door, she let it bang shut behind her as she dashed down the wooden stairs to the beach. Racing along the shore as if she couldn't get away fast enough, Faith missed how the rustling of the reeds sounded like muted whispers as a breeze, carrying a stench of dead fish, wafted its way up the stairs. 

By the time Faith had run the six miles back to Aidan's house, she was starting to feel like she might be able to crash. As she walked up from the beach, she saw light from Aidan's study. “Burning the midnight oil,” she said, even though it was well after the witching hour. Picking up her pace, she dashed around the edge of the property to the front of the house, hoping to put off any confrontations till, well, indefinitely would be best but tomorrow would do. With a small jump, she grabbed the lower edge of the roof and pulled herself up. A graceful flip took her over the railing onto the widow's walk and then it was just a quick scamper along the roof. 

Faith listened until she was sure the room was empty before sliding in through the window. There was a lamp on the bedstand, and she flipped it on as she threw herself onto the bed. Then she froze. Below the lamp was an envelope with her name written in a large, flowing script. Feeling an unexpected weight as she picked it up, Faith peered in. There was a key inside. Pulling out the paper, she noted that the off-white sheet was thicker than the paper she was used to, more like stuff Petra had kept around her house. _I thought you might prefer to use the front door in the future_ was written in the same hand. It was signed with all three of his names, Aidan Nelson Taylor. 

Faith stared at the key. _For me?_ she wondered. Even though she'd lived in the townhouse, Petra had never given her a key, preferring to keep tabs on her whereabouts. Not that it had stopped Faith. It wasn't like the window was hard to climb out of, even it it was on the second story. Petra, quickly realizing she wasn't going to stop Faith's excursions, had ignored them. Well, not totally. She'd usually woken Faith up earlier the next day, held back the coffee, and had given Faith impossibly duller lessons than usual, but Faith had shrugged that off. Getting out had been worth it. 

But this meant– Faith shook her head. She wasn't sure what it meant. “Tomorrow's soon enough to find out how much like his cousin Aidan is,” she said, collapsing onto the bed. Reaching over, she turned off the light. 

 

* * *

Wesley hadn't been in America long enough to get used to the time difference. Even though he'd gone to bed after eleven, he woke at 2 AM. There was a clock by his bedside, ticking off the long minutes. As he lay there, unable to return to sleep, his thoughts turned to Faith's previous Watcher, Mrs. Petra Burnand. He'd never met her, but he'd gone through her Watcher Diaries after he'd taken over her position. 

What he couldn't understand was why she'd recommended Mr. Taylor as a teacher for Faith. While it wasn't unprecedented to bring in an expert to train a Slayer, it was unusual and, as far as Wesley could tell, Mrs. Burnand had been doing a perfectly adequate job on her own. Her mistake had been in stepping out into the field. A Watcher, being dedicated to research, inspires and guides his Slayer from the safety of his library. He is a neutral agent, Wesley thought with a smug, self-satisfied air. The words were straight out of the Watchers' Handbook, which emphasized the responsibilities of a Watcher, but also that the neutrality of the Watchers kept them safe from demonic activity. 

_Mrs. Burnand stepped outside the bounds. I shan't make that mistake. If she'd kept to her duty, Kakistos wouldn't have–_ Wesley's thoughts stopped there. While he'd been taught that, as a Watcher, he'd be safe from demons, he'd read too many histories where a Watcher had been attacked and killed. Wesley wasn't unintelligent, but it had simply never occurred to him that the Council could have lied. 

Rolling over so that he couldn't see the clock hands ticking away, Wesley pounded his pillow into a reasonable shape and closed his eyes. Hours passed before he slept. 

When he woke to the sound of footsteps in the hallway, the alarm clock told him it was 6 AM. While they weren't loud, the nights he'd spent in Mrs. Burnand's home had been unnerving, to say the least. Even though she hadn't died there, the thought that she'd been killed at a vampire's hands had disturbed Wesley so much that he'd jumped at the slightest sound. 

As Wesley looked around, the walls of the room reminded him of boarding school. They were a generic off-white color that had invariably, at school at least, gotten scuff-marked by the end of each semester. What Wesley didn't know was that Aidan's wife, having chosen the room as a nursery, had painted it in bright yellows and greens, adding colorful sketches of ducklings to the walls. After she'd died, Aidan had painted it over, removing all personality from the room. 

As Wesley put on his navy pinstripe suit, selected to assert his authority, he worried a bit about power ties, finally settling on the steel gray as best conveying stern leadership. Brigit, wearing a crimson robe, was just coming up the stairs as he was heading down. “Good morning,” she said from behind a yawn. “Breakfast's in about two hours.” 

“Oh, um, yes,” he said. As she continued up the stairs, he called after her, “I don't suppose there's a newspaper?” 

Turning, she gave him an apologetic smile. “No. Aidan says their a distraction from his work. I'm over at my parent's house often enough that I catch up on the news then.” 

“Ah,” he replied, disconcerted that there wasn't a regular delivery to the house. In his Advanced Research class, he'd quite excelled in spotting demonic activity through newspaper articles. In fact, he'd gotten the only A. 

“There's a newsstand in town,” she said, glancing down the hallway. “It should be open by now.” 

“Right. Thank you. I'll, um, just be on my way then.” It wasn't even a ten minute drive into town, through roads shaded over by trees whose branches bent out above almost touching enough to form archways overhead. 

Finding a bagel shop next to the newsstand, Wesley settled in with his papers, a cup of tea, and a danish to tide him over until breakfast. The danish remained half eaten and his tea grew cold as he excitedly circled headings and underlined phrases in the newspaper. When he did finally look up, it was a bit after eight. _Breakfast_ , he thought. Good, that means they'll be awake. The drive back flew by as Wesley thought about what his first demon, out in the field, might turn out to be. He was practically bouncing with excitement as he barged into the dining room, so focused on sharing his findings that he barely noticed anyone but Mr. Taylor at the table. 

“Thirty-eight,” he shouted. “ Thirty-eight drownings in the past year.” He tossed the paper, proof of his diligence, down onto the table with a loud slap. 

Mr. Taylor put down his fork and stared up. “So?” Wesley stood there, his jaw moving up and down. He didn't know what to say. His professors had always been supportive. Turning back to his breakfast, Mr. Taylor added, “We're near the ocean. There are always fools getting in over their heads.” 

“But, but so many?” Waving away his doubts, Wesley added, “I suspect demonic activity. We should investigate.” 

“Not my problem. You can deal with it as you wish,” Mr. Taylor said. 

“Not your problem?” Wesley exploded. “You're a Watcher, man.” _Or you were_ , he thought, but managed not to say. 

As Faith tilted back her chair, with a huge grin on her face, Wesley noticed the others at the table. Faith, as the Slayer, would naturally overhear Watcher business eventually. He wasn't thrilled that Brigit was there, but she was already in the know, not that Wesley was happy about that. No, what gave him pause was that the girls, Claire and Grace, were also at the table. 

“My brother works in the Coroner's Office,” Grace piped up when nobody else spoke. “If there was anything strange, I'm sure he would have noticed it.” 

“I'm sure he's well trained.” Wesley's tone of voice suggested exactly the opposite. “But he can't know what to look for.” Oh dear, I'm discussing demons with a child, and one doesn't belong to the Watcher families at that. Wesley's lips tightened. _It's all his fault_ , he thought glaring over at Mr. Taylor, who calmly took a sip of his tea. _If he hadn't interfered, Faith and I would be securely settled in Boston now._

“Oh, but he–“ the girl began. 

“Grace,” Brigit warned in a bit of conversation went unnoticed by Wesley. 

“Faith,” he said, asserting his authority. “After breakfast we'll start reviewing how far along, um, your education is.” 

“Aw, man. I only got a couple of hours sleep–“ 

“He's right,” Mr. Taylor interrupted. “Your studies will be just as important as your physical training.” 

Faith glared but didn't complain further. Relieved that he wouldn't have to argue with the girl, Wesley tried to feel indignant at Mr. Taylor's interference. He certainly didn't want to be indebted to the man, but perhaps Mr. Taylor's words had nothing to do with her acquiescence. She might be starting to recognize his authority as her Watcher. 

“I don't suppose there's a private room?” Wesley didn't want to ask, but it was necessary if they weren't going to be overheard by the girls. 

“In the basement,” Brigit replied. “The original library is across from the training room. We expanded up here later as more books came in.” Wesley, who'd grown up surrounded by huge occult libraries, didn't question why a retired Watcher would be accumulating books. 

“Can I sit in?” Claire asked. 

“Claire,” Mr. Taylor scolded. “You know you can't.” 

“Uncle Aidan,” she replied, leaning over the table and putting more exasperation into those two words than should have been able to fit into such a small frame. Wesley was reminded of his own teenage years and how frustrated he'd gotten with Father. Not that he'd ever vocalized his feelings. “If we're both learning abut demons, we should study together.” 

“Hey, you can do my homework,” Faith said, having cleared away the last bit of what had been an enormous meal from her plate. “Meet you there,” she said to Wesley as she pushed away from the table. 

Wesley turned his attention to breakfast, eating quickly so he could get down to the library before Faith chose to disappear on him again. 

 

* * *

The two officers, Armstrong and Lopez, had left the siren off as they responded to the call certain, based on the name of the caller, that it wasn't going to be a real problem. Lisa Gilman, who was one crazy old bird, had lodged so many complaints, mostly against her neighbors, that she'd practically funded the Fourth of July fireworks in court fees. Neither man expected the call to be worth their while but replied that they'd check it out. 

As the car pulled onto the street, a woman dashed out in front of them. Armstrong just barely avoided hitting her by swerving the car to the right as he hit the breaks. “Lisa,” he shouted, leaping out of the car. “I don't care what's gotten you so worked up. Even my granddaughter knows better than to run out in front of cars.” 

She ran straight for him, her words so full of screams that he couldn't begin to make sense of them. “Now calm down,” he shouted as he grabbed her arms to keep her from crashing right into him. “What's got you in such a ruckus?” 

Still screaming, she nodded her head towards one of the beach houses. “I'll take a look,” Lopez said as he started loping over. 

“Now Lopez, you get back here,” Armstrong shouted, wishing the young man wasn't so impulsive. He took a step or two after his partner but Lisa threw herself against him, wailing up a storm. “There, there,” he said, patting her on the back. “It can't be that bad.” Lopez disappeared around the side of the house. “Now you wait here,” he said to Lisa as he propped her up against the side of the car. She grabbed at him, her fingers like claws in his arm. “Lisa,” he yelled, shaking her. She calmed down enough to accept it when he said he had to go after his partner. 

By then, Lopez had been gone longer than he should have been. Armstrong pulled out his gun and peered around the side of the house, just as he'd been trained to, before going around. A screen door, twisted and bent, lay smashed on the grass. When he heard someone choking, Armstrong rushed to the back and peered around the corner. Lopez was puking. As his eyes scanned past Lopez to the back deck of the house and the stairs leading down to the beach, Armstrong took a step back. “Sweet Mother of God.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Sustiri demons,” Faith said over Wesley's dull drone. _Damn, leave it to Watcher-boy to make even demons boring_. 

“Well, yes, but you could at least let me finish the question.” 

“Can I go yet?” she asked, stretching out on the leather chair with a huge yawn to let Wesley know exactly what she thought of his lessons. 

“Naturally not,” he replied. “We have quite a bit more material to cover before I can even begin to assess what you've managed to learn from your previous Watcher.” 

_Managed to learn_ , Faith thought. Like I'm not smart enough to have picked up any of this stuff. Feigning indifference, Faith strolled over to the one of the bookcase-covered walls and started skimming a finger across the books, as if looking for a specific one. 

Wesley shuffled through the books he had scattered across the wooden table, finally picking one up. “Ah, here we are. Now, what do you know about water demons?” 

Faith saw a vampire tossing a struggling body into the water where crocodiles were waiting. An arm, severed just below the elbow, bobbed up and down in the waves. “Water demons?” she sneered. “You're shitting me, right?” 

Wesley suddenly looked much stuffier in an _Aha I'm vindicated kind of a way_. “I should have thought Mrs. Burnand would have trained you to fight water-dwelling demons. They can generally move between land and sea, and it's not as though you lived far from the ocean.” 

Faith froze and bit her lip. It had been her mistake that had gotten Petra killed. This scumbag had no right to mock her Watcher. “Yeah, well maybe I would have been better off without her help, and maybe I don't need yours either,” she said, storming towards the door. 

“Faith,” he exclaimed. “This is for your own good. The more you know about demons, the more effective you'll be against them.” Faith stopped. Her hand, just inches from the doorknob, fell back to her side. Petra's lectures had summed up to the same thing; the more you know, the longer you'll live. Neither she nor Wesley had the guts to put it so straight, but that's what they meant. 

“Fine,” she sighed dramatically, as she flopped back down into the chair. 

Wesley started lecturing again. “Demons are, as you should know, so ancient that they appear as monsters in folklore, legends, and myths all around the world. In the Babylonian mythology, for example, Tiamat is said to have given birth to dragons, serpents, and mer-people. Tiamatu demons are actually lizard-like in appearance and tend to live in lakes or marshes.” He opened a large greenish volume to show her a drawing. “They are quite shy and tend to avoid humans, but if cornered can be deadly. Their tails are extremely flexible, able to whip around in a flash to attack an opponent. Now the Lotan,” he flipped through a second book, “is described as a seven-headed sea serpent in the Ugaritic myths, which you really should read sometime. Fascinating material.” 

Faith rolled her eyes, but Wesley was too engrossed in the tome to notice. 

“In reality, they're born with only three-heads, but, much like the Hydra of the Greek myths, when one is cut off, two more grow back in its place. They are almost impossible to kill. Over the centuries seven Slayers have attempted to defeat Lotanic demons. None have survived.” 

“Gee, that's helpful,” Faith snarked. _If you can't tell me how to kill them, what the hell am I doing here?_

Wesley's lips tightened but he continued on. “Genesis mentions the Taninim, which Jastrow translates as sea monsters, crocodiles, or large snakes. Taninim are women who have performed an ancient ritual calling on Be'thatet, a Hell-Goddess, to give them power over someone, usually a lover, who has rejected them. They have the ability to shape-shift into the form of a crocodile, which is the origin of their name.” 

Faith shifted uncomfortably in her chair. _What the hell do taninim have to do with crocs?_

“While they are, like most demons, unnaturally strong, their favored mode of attack is that of the Sirens.” Having no idea what he was talking about, Faith just stared at him. Wesley sighed. “The Sirens? Greek mythology? Their songs drew sailors to their deaths on rocky shorelines?” 

“If you say so.” Faith shrugged. 

Wesley opened his mouth as if about to comment, but then shook his head and looked over the books on the table. Leafing through another book, he added, “Unfortunately I don't have any depictions although, since they primarily stay in human form, I don't suppose a picture would do you much good anyway. They can be killed, but– Yes, can I help you?” 

Aidan stood in the doorway. “I apologize for the interruption, but I need to do an assessment before I can design a training regime. I was planning to do it later, but something has come up, and I won't be available.” 

Faith linked her fingers together and stretched her arms outwards. “Good. I need a workout.” 

“Yours will be later,” Aidan said. “This is for Mr. Wyndam-Pryce.” 

“What?” Wesley sputtered. Faith smirked as she sank back into her chair. 

“Obviously if I'm going to train you to backup a Slayer, I'll need to know your current physical capabilities,” Aidan said. 

“I assure you, I have been more than adequately trained by the Watchers' Council,” Wesley replied. 

“You're not working for the Council now. You're working with me.” Faith heard the unspoken, _and you'll do things my way._

Wesley opened and closed his mouth a few times, before angrily gathering up his books. “Fine. Let me change. I'll be down shortly.” His storming out had all the impact of a barely noticed squall. 

“You know he's going to call the Council,” Faith said. 

“Doesn't matter. They've chosen to play this out. Nothing Mr. Wyndam-Pryce tells them will change that,” Aidan replied. 

“How'd you get them to agree to all this?” Faith asked. 

“All what?” 

“You, working with a slayer. From what I've been told, it's usually a one-on-one thing.” 

“You should study more,” Aidan said, grinning as she made a face. “There have been exceptions, over the centuries, although they are rare. Moore's _Compendium of Watcher Politics_ is, shall we say, entertaining. It's cataloged along that wall,” he said, pointing out a bookcase, “third shelf over.” With that, he left Faith alone in the library. 

Faith found the book he'd mentioned, flipped through a couple of pages, and took it back to her chair. With a grin, she said, “Damn, these guys were brutal.” 

 

* * *

Off to one side behind the house, was an oak that had been old when the country was young. Despite its age, it was sturdy enough that a wooden swing, large enough for three if they squished together, hung by a rope from its branches. As the swing slowed down almost to a rest, Claire's foot kicked off against the ground, starting it up again. “What?” Grace asked as Wesley ran past them carrying a log across his shoulders. 

“Uncle Aidan must be testing him,” Claire explained. “He'll run five miles, carrying that log the whole way. When he gets back, Uncle Aidan'll have him doing push-ups and crunches until he can barely stand. Then they'll spar. It's an excellent endurance workout.” 

“Ugh,” Grace said, giving Claire a look of disbelief. “And why would you want to be doing all that when you could be enjoying the sun?” 

“Come on,” Claire said, grabbing Grace by the arm and chasing after Wesley. “Let's run with him.” 

Grace managed to stop her as they approached the thick wall of reeds separating the yard from the beach. “Are you insane? Five miles? You go if you want, but I'm fine here.” 

Walking to the far edge of the reeds where she could keep an eye on Wesley, Claire sighed. “I guess I shouldn't interfere.” Spotting Wesley, she said, sounding disappointed, “Hey, he dropped the log.” 

“Smart man,” Grace interjected. 

“Wait. Why is he walking into the water?” Claire asked. 

“Something doesn't feel right.” Grace, who hadn't been watching Wesley, peered around to see. “Who's that woman with him?” 

“What woman?” 

“What do you mean, what woman?” Grace asked. “He just took her hands.” 

“Umm, Grace? There's nobody there, well, besides Wesley that is,” Claire said. 

“Holy Mother, she'd dragging him in.” 

“Grace?” Claire asked, sounding worried. “What are you seeing? He's just walking in, but he is in awfully deep, up to his hips. Do you think he's OK? Maybe I should check it out.” 

“No. Don't,” Grace said with unusual decisiveness. 

Claire started running towards Wesley. 

“Oh, I'm gonna get in so much trouble for this,” Grace said as she leaned down to pick up a handful of sand. After saying a few words in Latin, she blew the sand into the wind. About a dozen seagulls, scattered above the beach, changed course and started dive bombing the woman. Wesley started flailing his arms around wildly and floundered back to the shore, where he fell to all fours. As Claire knelt down to help him up, Grace scanned the shore for the woman, but she was nowhere to be seen. _Oh, I don't like this, not at all_ , Grace thought as she ran over. 

“I'm fine, really,” Wesley was saying as Grace joined them. Claire had helped him up and was supporting him on one side, although his legs wobbled, almost dragging both of them down into the sand. Grace took his other arm and helped Claire lead him back to the house, while he insisted, the entire way back, that he was perfectly all right. 

“What happened?” Brigit asked as they staggered into the house. 

Before Claire could answer, Grace replied. “We're not sure. He just walked straight into the water.” 

Brigit felt his forehead. “He is a bit chilled. I'll put him to bed. Go tell your uncle that Wesley won't be training today.” 

After Brigit had dragged Wesley up the stairs, Claire said, “We should tell uncle Aidan about the woman you saw.” 

“No,” Grace whispered vehemently. “You know I could get in trouble for using magic.” 

“But if I couldn't see her and you could, that's got to be supernatural. He'd want to know.” 

“We don't know that. Maybe it was just a trick of the light.” Seeing the stubborn look on Claire's face, Grace pulled out the big guns. “Do you want me to be grounded for the whole summer?” 

“Well, no, but maybe he wouldn't tell your mother,” Claire replied without conviction. 

“Oh, cause there's no way Brigit wouldn't find out, living right here and all.” 

Claire looked uncertain, and Grace pushed her advantage. “We keep this to ourselves. Promise?” 

“OK,” Claire sighed. “I promise.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Faith,” a weak voice called out from Wesley's room. _Damn, I thought Aidan had you tied up all afternoon. If I pretend I don't hear him–_ “Come here,” he added. 

With a sigh, Faith peered in. There was nothing personal anywhere in the room – no family photos, no knives. Wesley was sitting on the bed, well more like about to topple over onto the bed if he let go of the dresser. “Man, you look like crap.” 

“Very eloquently put. Thank you,” he replied. “Don't you think this game has gone on long enough?” 

“Not playing a game here, Wes,” Faith replied. 

“You know what I mean,” Wesley said with a glare. Faith wasn't sure what was wrong with him, but it was giving him an edge. He almost seemed like he could be scary, if he tried hard enough. “There is absolutely no need to bring Mr. Taylor into our relationship. He has no standing with the Council, and yet you willfully choose to associate with him.” 

“Hey, you know where the door is.” 

“I'm your leader now, and I insist you stop these shenanigans.” 

“Leader?” Faith asked looking pissed. “And just where the hell do you think you're gonna lead me? Into another alligator pit?” 

Wesley looked confused. “What do alligators have to do with anything?” 

“Everything OK in here?” Brigit asked, popping her head through the doorway. “Oh,” she added as she saw Wesley. “You shouldn't be up.” 

He protested feebly as Brigit pushed him back onto the bed and tucked his sheet over him. 

“No prob, we're done here,” Faith replied, bolting for the door. 

 

* * * 

 

That evening found Faith on a street just off the main drag, well lit with shop windows designed to draw in the eye. She was staring at a black top that seemed a bit plain but could tell would look wicked hanging off her. The mannequin also wore navy blue pants, and while they looked like something her grandmother would wear, she'd caught a glimpse of leather towards the back of the store. Maybe there'd be something worth picking up. The shops were closed at that hour, but it wasn't like that could stop her. 

Faith was looking around for back ways into the store when she heard a shoe click against the street. She scanned the area for anything she could use as a weapon as she turned, but it was only Brigit walking towards her from the main drag. “Aidan asked me to find you,” Brigit said. “He was planning to start your physical evaluation.” 

“Now?” Faith asked with a glance towards the night sky. 

“That's what he said.” 

“I, uh, sure,” Faith said, wondering how much Brigit had seen. Hell, it wasn't like she was ashamed or anything. Want. Take. Have. Still, she tried to distract Brigit with a question. “How'd you know where to find me?” 

“It's a small town.” 

Not that small, Faith thought as she followed Brigit back to the car. She was about to ask again, when a voice called out, “You know, Grace, nobody's going to take you seriously if you hang out with the tourons.” 

What the fuck? Faith saw Grace and Claire waiting by Brigit's car. Claire was smiling, but it wasn't a friendly smile. Faith's eyes narrowed. “Tourons?” she shouted. 

The girl who had spoken turned towards them and blushed for a moment before putting a sneer back on her face. She looked to be about the same age as Grace and Claire. The girl's hair, cut so it curled above her shoulders, was so blond that Faith was sure it had been bleached. Her plaid mini-skirt was worn below an olive green spaghetti strap top. 

“A combination of tourist and moron,” Claire replied, obviously enjoying the girl's discomfort. “Because I'm not a local.” 

“And what would that make me?” Faith asked, walking straight up to the girl. 

The girl struck a pose, obviously about to make a comment. Faith folded her arms with a glare. The girl stepped back. “Come on,” the girl said to her friends. “We've got better places to be.” 

“Who was that bitch?” Faith asked as she joined Brigit, Grace, and Claire by the car. 

“Amanda. She doesn't like me,” Claire said with a twitch of her head that told Faith how much it bothered her. 

“You want me to take care of her for you?” Faith asked. 

Grace gasped at the offer, but Claire just smiled and shook her head no. “That's OK. I figure karma'll get her back big time any day now.” 

“I have to get Faith back,” Brigit said. “Give my love to Mom,” she added as she handed a bag out of the back seat over to Claire. Grace rolled her eyes. 

“What was that about?” Faith asked as she and Brigit got into the car. 

“Huh? Oh, they go back and forth between the two houses all summer. As long as Claire keeps her training up, Aidan doesn't mind,” Brigit said. 

“He's pretty intense with the training,” Faith said. 

“He is very driven,” Brigit agreed, “but he does know demons.” 

“How'd you get involved in all this?” Faith asked. 

Brigit glanced back and forth between the road and Faith a few times before answering. “Ummm,” she said with a shrug. “After my husband died, people thought I needed something to do. Useful work was the phrase that was used. Aidan needed an assistant about then, and so it was arranged.” 

“Still, you couldn't have been too up on demons. Not like it's common knowledge,” Faith probed. 

Brigit thought for a moment and replied in a lower voice. “There are families and groups that historically had connections with the Council. While we don't fight demons ourselves, we are aware of the, um, more supernatural aspects of existence.” 

“Huh,” Faith said. “Petra never mentioned it.” 

“She wouldn't have,” Brigit said more confidently. “There's not a lot of love lost,” she started. “Let's just say the Council isn't too fond of outsiders.” 

“Hey,” Faith offered. “Not like they're all that happy with me either.”


	6. Chapter 6

Fifteen minutes later, Aidan led Faith out onto the beach. “Shouldn't I be wearing sweats or something?” 

“Demons won't give you a chance to change.” 

“You let Wes put on shorts,” Faith said with a sharp look. 

“He's not the Slayer, but you're right. For his evaluation, I let him change because he wouldn't have given me his best effort while formally dressed,” Aidan said. “Now, into the water with you, up to your thighs. You'll be running five miles,” he gestured along the shoreline away from town, “and back.” 

“Are you shitting me? These jeans will feel like lead weights in no time, and it'll ruin my boots.” 

“Which will slow you down enough that I'll be able to keep up with you from the shore and, more importantly, it'll give you a real workout,” Aidan replied. 

“I– hey, do you hear that?” Faith gazed off towards the sea. 

“Hear what?” Aidan asked, waving a hand before her face. Her eyes didn't move. 

“That music.” She started walking towards the water. 

“Faith. Stop,” Aidan yelled. Faith kept going at the same pace. “Faith,” he shouted, grabbing her arm. Without taking her gaze off the ocean or slowing her steps, Faith shoved him into the sand. 

“Faith!” 

The waves splashed over her boots, but Faith kept walking until a bullet zinged by her. “Hey,” she said, shaking her head. 

Both hands on a gun, Aidan said, “Next time I'll aim for a leg.” 

“What the hell are you doing?” she said, as she splashed back to the shore. 

“You were entranced and walking into the ocean.” 

“So you shot me?” she asked. 

“I needed to get you out of the trance,” he replied. 

“You shot at me?” 

“If I'd shot at you, you'd either be dead or injured,” he said. 

“Shit, I don't remember any of it,” she said, looking down at her wet jeans. 

He nodded. “I know. Come on, we need to get back to the house.” 

Faith gazed back towards the water. Aidan wrenched her arm around. “Hey,” she shouted. 

“It was taking you over again,” he said, “and I'd rather not shoot you. Come on, we're getting out of here.” 

“Not sure I can,” Faith said, struggling against the sound only she could hear. 

“Sing,” he told her. “It'll keep the demon out of your head.” 

“Far away where the waves unwind, and the toothy rock crashes,” she sang as they raced back to the house. 

“Brigit,” Aidan shouted. Brigit ran in from the kitchen, and Wesley rushed down the stairs, just as Aidan was settling Faith onto the living room couch. 

“Good Lord, what happened?” Wesley asked. 

“Faith, can you still hear it?” Aidan asked as Faith over Faith's singing, ““Bright sashed Sirens with their second guesses.” 

“Faith, can you hear it?” he asked again. 

“Have a bite worse than their roar,” she sang. “No?” she asked in response to his question. Sitting up, she added, “No, definitely not.” 

“You will tell me what's going on immediately,” Wesley said. 

“Brigit,” Aidan asked, “where do we keep our tomes on sirens and related demons?” 

“Up here, right on that shelf behind you.” 

“Good, start researching,” Aidan said. 

“Are you suggesting Faith has been attacked by some sort of a siren?” Wesley asked. 

“No,” Faith replied scornfully. “We're looking them up just for the fun of it.” 

Aidan, having already decided Faith and Wesley had to work out their issues without his interference, asked Faith to describe what she'd heard. 

“Why don't you?” she asked, still feeling shaken. 

“Because I didn't hear it.” 

“Huh? But it was clear as day,” she said. 

Wesley stood up straighter, as if he were a child reciting in his first school play. “Many of the demons that use sound, or specifically song, to subdue their prey can target an acoustical, um, wave on one or more intended victims.” 

“Was that supposed to mean something?” Faith asked. 

Brigit dumped a pile of books on the table with an “Umph!” “He's suggesting you heard it, and Aidan didn't, because the demon wanted it that way, although it could also be that your Slayer abilities made the difference.” 

“Really?” Wesley said with a huff. “Bergerson clearly suggests that all demons of the–“ 

“We can debate theory later,” Aidan interrupted. “Right now we need to determine what attacked Faith. What did it sound like?” 

“It sounded like long, drawn-out wails, not like crying, but musical somehow. At least the first time it did,” Faith said. 

Wesley glanced up at her description, but then gazed off as if recalling something. 

“The first time?” Brigit asked. 

“When I was running along the beach the other night, I heard it, but it was far off in the sea. The second time, it was just off shore.” 

“It sounded different the second time?” Aidan asked. 

“There was the same kind of wailing, but it wasn't as– it didn't sound as nice, not so musical. Also, there was this other sound, sort of like bones being crushed.” 

“I heard it as well,” Wesley stated. 

“But you were here in the house,” Brigit said. 

“No, not just now,” Wesley said shaking his head. “Earlier, when Mr. Taylor sent me out running. I, somehow I'd forgotten until I heard Faith describing it.” 

“You had practically passed out. Claire and Grace had to help you back,” Brigit said. 

“A musical seduction of a targeted victim, then,” Aidan said. “And Faith was singing about sirens on the way up from the beach.” 

“I was?” Faith asked. “I sang the first thing that popped into my head.” 

“Why was she singing?” Wesley asked absentmindedly. 

“To keep the siren out of her mind,” Aidan answered. 

“Hmmm?” Wesley asked. “Oh yes, of course.” As if to cover up for missing such an obvious defense against siren song, he started reviewing what he knew. “Sirens. 'Winged maiden, daughter of the earth,' according to Euripedes,” he quoted. 

“Wait, wings? I thought Wes said sirens sang people to death.” Faith asked. 

“ Euripedes was playwright of classical Athens,” Aidan explained. “Naturally he'd describe the sirens as winged.” 

“Huh?” 

“The ancient Greeks thought of the sirens as bird-women who would lure sailors to their death with enticing songs and music,” Brigit added. 

“Could we please get back to the subject at hand?” Wesley asked. “An enchanting song would fit in with what you heard the first time although not so well with the second encounter. Did you see the singer. Could you tell if she had feathers?” Wesley continued on without waiting for an answer. “There are certainly enough entities associated with the sea, such as the oceanids. Any number of them could easily be associated with sirens given that both groups were seen as Persephone's companions: Acaste, Ianira, Leucippe, Doris representing the bounty of the sea, or Metis as wisdom. Philyra who taught mankind to make paper–“ 

“Mr. Wyndam-Pryce,” Aidan barked. When Wesley, startled out of his musings, jerked his head up, Aidan added, “I think we should focus on creatures not beneficial to mankind.” 

“Oh.” Wesley blushed, embarrassed to have lost focus so blatantly his first time out. “There are the sea witches, although I've never read anything that would associate them with song or music of any kind. The Romanian iele are related to the Greek nymphs, but they're only malevolent when crossed being more strongly associated with retribution than vengeance, very much like Nemesis actually. They also tend to gather in groups, leaving scorched earth behind where they've danced. The undead rusalka are, according to my cousin Percy, as pale as vampires. Each one is bound to the mortal plane by a comb, although Sellers claims that they'll die if their hair dries out, and that the combs keep their hair damp. Sort of odd, that. No need to wander off topic. They do sing, but nothing I've read suggests the kind of sounds Faith and I heard. The banshee, dressed in either gray or white, brush out their fair hair with silver combs.” He shivered. “Must be a disturbing sight. I don't suppose you saw this thing? No, it doesn't matter since whatever it is, it can't be a banshee. While they do keen, it's only to foretell death and not to cause it. The bean nigh, washers at the ford, are related to the banshee but, while washing blood from the grave clothes of those about to die does sound rather gruesome, they don't actually cause death.” 

“Wait,” Faith said, sitting up. “You said something about a comb.” 

“Well, yes,” Wesley said, uncertain how to proceed when someone was actually paying attention to him. A pedantic mode seemed the safest. “The banshee brush their hair out with combs, but I don't believe that's relevant. They aren't demonic, per se, but more–“ 

“There was a woman,” Faith interrupted. “She had a comb in her hair.” 

“You didn't mention seeing anyone on the beach,” Aidan said. 

“It was earlier,” Faith said. “At a beach party, there was this guy hanging out near the water with a woman. She had a comb. It had waves on it or something.” 

“One woman wearing a comb hardly a demon makes,” Wesley said. 

“What happened to the man?” Aidan asked. 

Faith shrugged. “He came back to the party with me.” 

“Now really,” Wesley said. “We have no indications that she was a demon.” 

Brigit blanched as she looked at Aidan. “You think Faith took a demon's victim?” 

“Hey,” Faith said. “It's my job to take out demons. What's the big?” 

“The big,” Aidan said, “is that you were caught completely unaware.” 

“Look, the banshee don't attack humans, and the rusalka live in rivers, not oceans,” Wesley explained. “Is anyone listening to me?” 

“The banshee,” Brigit shouted. She started rummaging through the books on the table. 

Giving her a condescending look, Wesley lectured, “While they might, as a related form to the bean nigh, be associated with rivers, the banshee are in no way associated with the sea.” 

Still rummaging through the books, but now with an irritated look on her face, Brigit said, “You mentioned earlier that the banshee use distinctive combs in their hair.” Looking up into the air, she struggled for a name. “Patricia Lysaght,” she said triumphantly, “theorized that combs were associated with the banshee only because banshee and mermaids were confused for each other in local myths.” 

“Mermaids and combs, really?” Wesley asked. “Do you happen to have a source available–“ 

“And what's this got to do with my demon?” Faith asked. 

“Mermaids rarely attack humans,” Aidan said. 

“But there might be related demons that do,” Brigit added. 

“Back to the books?” Faith asked in obvious dismay. 

“For us,” Aidan said. “I want you catching up on your sleep. This thing is dangerous. You should be well-rested before you attack it.” 

“Oh,” Wesley said as Faith stood. “And you really should get out of those wet clothes. Umm, the carpet,” he said, referencing the water that had soaked into carpet and couch. 

“No time to worry about that now,” Aidan said, as he shoved a tome into Wesley's hands.


	7. Chapter 7

A little over four hours later, Faith stretched the sleep out of her arms as she came down the stairs. Aidan, seated at the table, was lost in whatever book he was reading, while Brigit and Wesley were arguing. “Did you get that from Teasdale's translation? While his work may seem acceptable to the layman, in reality it is dubious at best.” 

“I read the original Sumerian,” Brigit replied in a tone of voice that suggested she was three seconds away from throttling him. 

“Any luck?” Faith asked. 

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Wesley admonished. 

“Nothing definitive,” Brigit said, “although I am tracking down a lead that I hope will be helpful.” She glared at Wesley as if daring him to suggest differently. 

“Ummm, OK. I'm gonna grab something to eat,” Faith said, _thinking before you have me pouring over books as well_. 

“There are sandwiches in the kitchen,” Brigit told her. 

“Got a break from the books? Good for you.” 

Brigit gave her a quizzical look. “My mother brought the food over when she came to pick up some clothes for Claire.” 

“Huh?” Faith asked. 

“Obviously we don't want children here if a demon is coming after you, especially if it's looking for vengeance,” Wesley said. 

_Vengeance_ , Faith thought as she backed out of the room. _How come nobody mentioned that earlier?_ She filled her plate with two turkey sandwiches and, grabbing a bag of chips, tiptoed down the stairs to the TV room. 

Faith was halfway through her second sandwich when _Passions_ ended – without revealing whether or not Alex was Shawna's dad. As a news program started, she looked around for the remote. “The four bodies found earlier today at a beach side rental have only recently been identified as–“ 

Faith glanced up at the screen where what looked like driver license photos of four young men were being displayed to the right of the newscaster. “I know these guys.” It was Luke and his buddies. The image shifted to the beach house, the one she'd left in the middle of the night. 

“Oh shit,” she said, racing up the stairs. 

Two minutes later, she and Wesley were in a shouting match. “If you would only explain in a manner that could be understood–“ 

“Stop it,” Aidan yelled. They both shut up and looked at him. “Wesley, sit.” 

“But,” Wesley piped up. 

“Now.” Wesley sat. 

“Faith, if you could please explain calmly and coherently,” Aidan asked. 

“I told you,” Faith shouted. “Those guys, I knew them and now they're dead.” 

“Faith,” Wesley said condescendingly, “we haven't been here three days. You can't have made that close a connection with anyone.” 

“Well, I don't know Wes. I fucked one of them. That close enough, you think?” 

“I, um, well,” Wesley stammered. 

With a thoughtful look, Aidan asked, “Was one of them the young man you rescued from the demon?” 

“Well yeah, if the demon is that woman with the comb in her hair,” Faith replied. 

“Oh dear,” Brigit said. 

“What's that supposed to mean?” Faith asked. 

“It could either mean the demon is targeting people you're connected to, or that she returned to her original victim, which would be better,” Brigit said. 

“Better?” 

“For us, I mean,” Brigit replied. “It would be preferable if the demon weren't specifically targeting you.” 

“I can't see it that way,” Faith said. “If she's coming after me, then she's leaving everyone else alone. I'm the Slayer. I'm supposed to be the one dealing with this shit.” 

“Oh,” Brigit said, blinking as if she wasn't sure how to take Faith's response. “Um, I'll go call my brother.” 

“Don't worry, he wasn't one of the guys in the house. The report said none of them were local,” Faith told her. 

Brigit shook her head. “That's not what I meant. Larry works for the Coroner's Office. He'll be able to tell us if there's anything unusual about the corpses.” 

“I told you paying attention to the news would be beneficial, but does anyone bother to listen to me? No, it's just standard Council protocol, honed over thousands of years,” Wesley muttered. 

Faith couldn't tell if Aidan had heard Wesley or not, but she decided to ignore him as she paced the length of the living room. “How long does it take to make one phone call?” she asked. Wesley was still muttering on about the importance of tradition. “How about I check the news, see if there's any more info?” she asked as she dashed towards the stairs. The newscast had switched to another topic so Faith turned off the TV and climbed slowly back up to the main floor. Relieved to see that Wesley had made himself scarce, she didn't ask where he'd gotten to. 

When Brigit joined them, her face was pale. “The bodies weren't drowned, but dismembered. Apparently there were,” she paused as if to steady herself, “hundreds of, um, pieces scattered through the house and across the beach.” 

Faith thought of Petra's arm, floating in brackish water and hugged her arms around herself. 

“Dismembered? Not sirens then,” Aidan said, seemingly unaffected by the gory description. 

Looking around for a distraction, Faith caught a flash outside the window. Slowly, only half listening to the conversation, Faith inched backwards towards the door. Aidan glanced towards her, but didn't do anything else to indicate he'd noticed her movements. 

“He said the marks on the bodies are from crocodiles,” Brigit said, “but that can't be. While there are saltwater crocodiles, none are local to this area. The water is too cold.” 

Faith flung open the door and bolted outside. Claire and Grace jerked away from the window. “What are you doing here?” Faith shouted. 

“We came to help,” Claire said. 

As Brigit and Aidan joined Faith on steps, they glared at the girls. “Grace Elizabeth Wright,” Brigit scolded, “do you have any idea how worried Mother must be?” 

“Umm, Mom thinks we're at Tonya's house?” Grace offered. 

“Why is Wesley walking to the beach?” Claire asked in an obvious attempt to change the topic. 

“Don't you try to distract me, young lady,” Brigit said. 

“Wait,” Aidan told her. “What do you mean, walking to the beach?” he asked the girls. 

“We saw him heading out between that gap in the reeds.” 

“Aw shit,” Faith said as Aidan asked if she could hear anything. “No,” Faith called back as she raced towards the beach, “but that doesn't mean he's not in trouble.” 

As Faith raced onto the beach, the moonlight showed Wesley waist-deep in the water. _Not again_ , she thought. _I'm not losing another Watcher._ “Wesley,” she yelled, as she raced to the sea. He fell into the water as if being pulled down. Faith's legs splashed salt water upwards as they hit the waves. Her gaze darted around. “Damn it, don't you dare die on me too,” she shouted. Up ahead she saw a hand, pale against the water, above an arm that faded into the darkness of the sea. 

Faith took a deep breath and dove down. Ahead she could see Wesley, hanging limply in the arms of a woman, whose braid whipped around behind her in the current. As she dragged Wesley deeper into the sea, she smiled at Faith. Her sharp teeth reminded Faith of the gators that had chewed up Petra. _Not this time, bitch_ , Faith thought as she swam after them. 

Wrenching the woman's hands off of Wesley, Faith tried to push her away and pull Wesley up at the same time. It wasn't working, but then the woman let go. _Finally something is going my way_ , Faith thought as she scissor-kicked upwards. A fingernail, as sharp as a claw, raked against Faith's thigh, drawing blood. The woman's arms grew darker, taking on a greenish tinge. _What the?_ As the arms grew shorter and fatter, the demon's chest expanded, ripping the dress as green ridges replaced pale skin. 

_Shit_ , Faith thought as she shoved Wesley towards the surface. _A shape-shifter._ Diving for the demon, Faith wrapped her hands around its still-human neck, which, as it expanded outwards, broke Faith's grasp. _Why's it always gotta be crocs?_ Faith thought as she tried to dodge away. A claw, sharp as a knife, sliced into her chest. Faith gasped and started choking. As she tried to push away from the demon, her hand found a comb among the few remaining strands of hair. She recalled Wesley's voice saying, “They're bound to the mortal plane by a comb.” 

_Hope this works_ , Faith thought as she pulled at the comb. She heard a shriek, so high-pitched that Faith thought her eardrums going to burst. _Bingo_ , she thought as she snapped the comb in two. The crocodile before her stopped thrashing, and its skin shifted from green to tan as her body shifted back into that of a woman. _Oh good, we won_ , Faith thought as she scrambled up to the surface. 

Once Faith got to where she could stand, Brigit was there to help her to shore. Sinking down on the sand, Faith saw Wesley being held up by Aidan a few feet away. Wesley looked as though he was puking out half the ocean. “He gonna be OK?” she managed to ask. 

“I think so,” Brigit replied. 

From the water, there was a gasp that was almost a scream. _Now what?_ Faith asked herself, as she turned to face the demon, but there wasn't anything to fight, just Grace and Claire pulling the body back to shore. “I broke the comb,” Faith said holding up the two pieces. “It should be dead.” 

Grace had her hand over her mouth. “It's Betty,” she said, before turning her head onto Claire's shoulder and sobbing. 

“Betty?” Brigit asked, walking over to get a better view of the corpse. She took a few steps back, as if to distance herself from what she'd seen. “Betty Campbell,” she whispered. 

“Hey,” Faith said. “That wasn't a woman. It was some sort of gator demon, and I've got no prob killing gators, or any other monsters. She was dragging Wes into the sea. He'd be dead if I hadn't–“ 

“I know,” Brigit said, kneeling down beside Faith on the sand. “Nobody's blaming you for anything. It's just a shock, seeing that it was someone we knew.” 

Faith thought back to her lesson with Wesley. “You think she turned herself into a demon on purpose?” 

“We don't know what happened,” Brigit said. “When we pass a description of the comb to some of Aidan's contacts, perhaps we'll learn something.” 

Wesley stopped coughing. “Oh my God. I–” he said, staring out to sea. “She almost– I could have died.” 

“Come on,” Brigit said. “Let's get back to the house. I'll give Larry a call. Aidan will stay with the body, with Betty, until the police arrive.” Aidan nodded in response. 

Claire and Grace held onto each other, and Brigit gave Wesley a shoulder to lean on as they made their way back to the house. Faith walked behind them, alone. When she turned to look back, she saw Aidan kneeling by the body. He sat back on his feet in a position that seemed somehow formal. Faith wasn't sure why, but she was reminded of a history lesson, one of the few interesting ones, where the teacher had told them about knights sitting with fallen opponents, honoring the dead.


	8. Chapter 8

The cops didn't seem to care about the occult books that were still strewn across the living room table. Granted most of the cops were combing the beach for clues, but you'd think that Kirkpatrick's _Demons of the Emerald Isles_ – and what had the guy been smoking to come up with that lame a title – would draw some interest. There were two cops in the living room, obviously acting as guards to make sure nobody ran off, while a third was interviewing Wesley in the study. 

Faith paced the back end of the living room, taking care to keep away from the couch were Grace was sitting while Brigit and Claire did their best to comfort her. When Brigit had brought her a soda, Grace had thanked her in a dull monotone. She hadn't spoken since. Presumably the cops would get her to talk when it was her turn in the study, but Faith wouldn't bet good money on it. 

Aidan, who'd been interviewed first, had brought out a couple of books and was busy researching, well, something. Faith didn't know what it might be since the demon was already dead. Only it wasn't a demon, was it? It was some chick who'd gotten the raw end of the deal and had been trying to get some of her own back. Faith stalked across the room and stared out the window. _Yeah, some fucking idiot of a chick who'd turned herself into a demon._

Faith heard the sound of the study door and kept staring into the darkness, not wanting to deal with Wes. He'd been freaking earlier until Aidan had taken him aside for a small chat. Faith hadn't caught all of what Aidan had said, but it had been full of phrases like “Watcher heritage”, “maintaining decorum”, and “family honor.” It had worked, somewhat. Wesley didn't really look less freaked, there was something wild in his eyes, but he'd started acting like he wasn't about to fall apart. _Must be nice to be that old before something tries to kill you._

As the cop, a tall and lanky man in a tan suit with a brush of unruly dark hair, called for Brigit, Faith turned to face the room, not really pleased but relieved that Wesley seemed to be too busy staring at nothing to get on her case. Brigit stood but looked uncertainly towards Grace, and then leaned over to squeeze Claire's shoulder. “Take care of my sister?” she asked. Claire, who looked as if she were about to burst into tears, nodded. 

Faith was itching to book. Being stuck in one place had trapped her inside her head. “Damn and double damn,” she muttered, using a phrase she'd picked up from Petra. _How was I supposed to know that demon had been human? Who even knew that humans could even become demons?_ She thought about vampires, but they lost their souls when they were turned. _Did that Betty chick still have her soul?_

Claire stood abruptly, knocking out Faith's train of thought, for which she was grateful. “Your soda has lost its fizz,” Claire said, which couldn't be true since it hadn't been sitting out twenty minutes yet. “I'll get you another.” She yanked the drink off the table and dashed towards the kitchen. _Think if I sat and stared into space someone would wait on me hand and foot? Doubt it._ Faith wanted to smack herself. Grace was just a kid; of course she was going to be wigging. Faith thought back to the first demon she'd killed, a vamp. She had shouted “Fucking A” into the night. Petra had told her to behave, but she hadn't been able to resist letting out another whoop of triumph. She'd survived. It was like... There weren't any words. 

She thought back further, to the first time she'd encountered death, not a demon's death but a human's. There'd been this kid in junior high, David. He hadn't even gone by Dave or Davey. It was David. He'd been a scrawny pencil-necked geek, but they'd sat next to each other in history, and he'd explained some stuff to her when she hadn't caught on right away. She'd been on the last row, closest to the window, but up front because history wasn't all that bad, and he'd sat one row in. It had happened over the weekend. David had been working at his dad's bakery, doing deliveries or something, when somebody had just come up and shot him, right out on the street for no reason at all. David had been Jewish and so the funeral and all that shit was already over by the time she knew anything about it. A bunch of the kids had gotten together and cried over the weekend, but nobody had thought to let her know. Like she'd needed it; she barely knew the guy, really. He was just a chess geek who happened to be in some of her classes. She'd almost sat in his seat, that first Monday back, it being closer in and all, but at the last moment it just hadn't felt right. 

The cop was standing just this side of the hallway calling out her name. “Finally,” Faith muttered. He directed her down the hall to Aidan's study and, pointing towards a leather chair in the middle of the room, sat himself on the edge of Aidan's desk. Faith sprawled out on the chair and stared at the vase of flowers by the window. 

“So tell me what happened,” he said, far too casually. 

“Aren't you supposed to ID yourself, first?” 

He pulled out a badge. “Detective Warne.” 

“Bit young to be a detective,” Faith said. 

Ignoring her comment, he started into the interview. “I understand that Grace Wright and Claire Moore weren't supposed to be here this evening.” 

“Nah, they split their time; some here and some at Grace's house. They came back for a video,” Faith replied. 

“Do you know what it was?” 

Faith snickered and said “probably something dirty” to see if she could throw him. 

He gave her an intense stare. “Why do you say that?” 

“That's what I would have been sneaking back for when I was their age.” 

“What happened next?” 

“I saw something out the window and caught them. The girls said something about Wes running towards the beach and shouting for help, so we followed. He was trying to save that chick, Miss Campbell I mean, but looked like he could use some help so I ran in after.” 

“Do you know why he was worried about her? It's not as if he could see she was drowning from the house,” Warne said. 

Faith shrugged. “Maybe she looked depressed or was carrying cement shoes or something.” 

Warne stared at her without replying until Faith, with a turn of her head apologized. It wasn't like she'd meant to sound so callous. 

“Did he know Miss Campbell?” he asked. 

“I doubt it. We just got here.” 

“This house belongs to Mr. Aidan Taylor. What is your relationship to him?” he asked. 

Faith felt like crossing her fingers but instead sprawled out a little more comfortably, feeling relieved that Aidan had brought this when they'd been figuring out what they'd tell the cops. “Wes is my legal guardian,” she said. She hadn't known, before that evening, that Petra had taken on a legal responsibility for her. Wes had said most Watchers did since it made for fewer questions when a slayer died. When, not if. When Faith had asked if it wouldn't look funny to the cops that her previous guardian had disappeared just a week ago, Wes had said he'd talk to the Council. Apparently they had some kind of mojo that allowed them to change the paperwork so it'd look like Wes had been her guardian ever since she'd become the Slayer. 

Warne didn't say anything. After a minute or two, Faith added, “He's some kind of distant cousin or something.” 

“I don't see any resemblance.” 

Faith decided to add some details to make it more believable. “He found me about five months after my mom died. I'd been living on the street and wasn't about to ask too many questions, you know? I mean, if he'd tried anything, I would have been gone like a bat out of hell, but he's always behaved like a brother to me, a really annoying know it all kind of a brother, but I have no complaints.” 

Warne looked suspicious, but Faith felt comfortable. Hell, this was nothing compared to the grilling she'd gotten after she and Tommy had been caught in the guitar shop after hours. 

“You'll be available if we have more questions?” he asked. 

Faith raised her hands upwards and outwards. “Not going anywhere.” He looked like he wanted to ask more but instead led her back to the living room. Grace was in the middle of a hug, surrounded by Brigit, Claire, and some older woman. Faith's breath hitched. Her hair flipped around her shoulder as she turned to the cop. “Can I split yet? I'd sort of like to get out of here for a bit.” 

“I need you to stay here until I finish my interviews. It shouldn't be much longer,” he replied. 

The woman gently broke away from the hug and barreled down on Warne. “You can't be thinking of subjecting my daughter to one of these interviews. Look at how upset she is. She needs to go home. Now.” 

He looked at the group still holding each other, two brunettes and a blond, and to the woman's hair – dark and just going gray. “Mrs. Wright, is it? I apologize for causing you and your family any distress, but this is procedure. Given that your daughter is underage, you may be in the room for her interview if you prefer.” 

Mrs. Wright looked at Aidan who was engrossed in a book. “You'll interview both girls at once, with me in the room, and then I'm taking them home.” 

“That's somewhat irregular,” he started to say. Mrs. Wright gave him a look. “This way,” he said, directing them to the study. 

Brigit looked around uncertainly. “I'll make coffee,” she announced. “I'm sure the officers would like something to drink.” 

After a few minutes, Faith followed Brigit into the kitchen, more for something to do than anything else. Brigit was standing by the coffee machine, that was about one-quarter full already, and staring bleakly into space. “Hey,” she said, unable to back out before Brigit saw her. 

“It's my fault,” Brigit said. 

Faith wrapped her arms around herself. “Can't say I'm following that logic.” 

“I keep thinking if I'd been a better person, if I'd been there for her, none of this would have happened,” Brigit said. 

“And maybe it wouldn't have changed anything,” Faith said carefully. She didn't want to alienate Brigit by dissing her friend, but that Betty chick had obviously been fucked in the head if she'd sold her soul to a demon or some shit like that. “Were you two close?” 

Brigit paced across the room. “It's more like we hung out in the same crowd sometimes. Close enough that I knew she was hurting but not enough that I did anything about it.” 

“It's not your job to watch out for everybody,” Faith said. 

“I still feel guilty,” Brigit admitted. 

“Yeah,” Faith agreed. “Tell me about it.” 

Brigit turned away from the pain in Faith's eyes and started pulling cups out of a cabinet. “Are you all right?” she asked, carefully not looking at Faith. 

“Fine,” Faith said quickly. 

Turning to Faith, she added, “You could come with us, to my parent's house, afterwards if you didn't want to be alone.” 

“Thanks,” Faith said, “but I'm OK here.” Brigit looked like she was about to say more, and Faith quickly added, “You don't have to save me; I'm five-by-five.” 

After Brigit had left to hand out coffee, Faith thought about the demon she'd killed, who'd really been a woman, at least at first, and the men she hadn't saved. Fuck, she hadn't even realized they'd needed saving. _You may think it's your fault_ , she thought, _but it was my job to save them. I met the demon. Hell, I even talked to it, and I still didn't see what it was. If I hadn't been so worried about getting my rocks off, those guys would still be alive._

 

* * *

 

Aidan's office was stark and organized. The cherry wood of the walls, selected by his wife over six years earlier, gave the room a dark warmth. To his left was a door and the four chairs that Aidan had carefully realigned after the detective had finished with the room. Past the chairs and across from his desk, a bookshelf, covering the length of the room, held ancient tomes. Along the final wall was a bay window before which stood a small table. His wife's photo was framed by two candles. Next to the ornate golden scrollwork of the picture frame sat a glass vase full of fresh flowers. Aidan, sitting at his desk, stared at the room without seeing it. 

The demon hadn't recognized Faith as the Slayer. That debate, whether or not demons had an intrinsic awareness of a slayer, had raged amongst the Council for centuries. He had the answer now, although he wasn't planning to share it. A year after Aidan had been offered, and had rejected, the position of Watcher, he'd found a spell so ancient that it wasn't even hinted at in any tome he'd ever read. It had allowed him to speak with Betty's soul. The demon she'd become had been shocked that Faith had been able to see her until it noticed the demonic taint that gave the slayer her power. When the demon had taken Wesley, she'd strengthened the glamor that made her invisible – only Brigit's magic had allowed Faith to see the demon. 

The new information didn't help as much as he'd hoped it would. A demon that knew about slayers but was inexperienced might or might not recognize a slayer when it met one. As he walked across the room and selected three specific books from the shelves, Aidan's heart sank as he saw the days of research and planning stretching out before him. It wasn't that he minded the research, he'd been trained for it after all, but the thing he wanted most in the world was once again flickering out of his sight. He'd known that bringing Faith and Wesley into his home was a calculated risk, but it still felt like he'd been punched in the gut. The Slayer might be one more dead end. 

 

* * *

 

Lying in bed with his arms over the covers, which were pulled up over most of his torso, Wesley found he couldn't sleep, even in the pitch black room. He thought of all the Watcher Diaries he'd read and how he'd never noticed the number of people who'd died at the hands of demons. It made sense, really; that's why the Slayer had been created in the first place, but he'd never realized that he, as a Watcher, would be threatened. He'd rather fancied himself safely surrounded by his books while his Slayer faced the actual danger. 

The fury of the demon's face flashed before his eyes. _I almost died! If Faith hadn't rescued me, that demon would have drowned me. I'd be floating, drifting out to sea right now. Don't be so dramatic Wesley. I'm certain Aidan or Brigit would have brought your corpse back to shore. My corpse._

A thought formed so far back in his mind that he was almost able to ignore it. _Oh come now_ , he told himself. _I've been training all my life to be a Watcher, and it's a great responsibility to have been assigned to the Slayer. My family have been Watchers going back as far as eleven generations. Not one of them has ever blighted the family name._

He sat up, blinded by the darkness but afraid to turn on the light. He didn't want to see himself at that moment. “Nonsense,” he mumbled. _Maybe you're not up to the job_ whispered in the back of his mind. Wesley saw his father's face, pale and stern with disappointment. _Death before dishonor?_ he asked himself, trying to give it a cynical twist. Instead the thought rang with truth. 

“I'll never get to sleep at this rate.” Reaching carefully to the bedside table, he found the sleeping pills that Brigit's brother had left after he'd checked Wesley over for injuries. He took them, and carefully placed the empty water glass back onto the table. Just before he dozed off, a final stray thought rose to the surface. While the police had questioned them thoroughly, Brigit's brother had been decidedly incurious about the corpse, which he'd taken to the morgue, and, while he'd treated Wesley's and Faith's injuries, he hadn't asked what had caused them. 

 

* * *

 

Dozens of small, twisting paths – where roots intertwined under last year's leaves – led to a clearing in the woods where forty-eight stones, each taller by half than a tall man, stood in a circle. The northernmost stone, which was called the Mother-stone by those who knew of it, had a circle carved through its center. On the ground before the Mother-stone was yet another stone, close to three inches thick with bits of quartz flickering in the torch light. 

Laid out on that stone was a body wearing a blue dress that was embroidered with a subtle pattern of green and white waves. While the face was covered by a white veil, the figure was obviously that of a woman. Her pale hair stretched outwards from her head, like rays of moonlight. 

Three women stood around the body: to the west, above the body's head was the Maiden in white, to the south stood the Mother in red, and to the east, the black-robed Crone. Reaching down to her chain-link belt, the Maiden pulled out the small curved blade that had been sheathed at her left hip and cut off a lock of pale hair. The Mother held out a silver box. As the Maiden mixed the pale hair from the corpse with the reddish-brown hair in the box, she chanted, “At both birth and death, we enter the gateway. Alone.” 

Bringing the box back around to the center of the slab, the Mother called out, “Three drops of amber mark the passage of the deceased: one for the child she was, a second to guide her to the Summerland, and a third to lead her soul back when the time is ripe for rebirth.” As she spoke, she dropped the nuggets of amber into the silver box. 

The Crone's hair shimmered like gray smoke in the torchlight. Chanting, she leaned over and cut two toenails, one from each foot, two fingernails, and a lock of hair from the body. 

The Mother stepped into the darkness, beyond the circle of torches, and brought a cauldron, overflowing with scented smoke. “The souls that are ours, are ours and may not be lightly traded away.” As the Crone spoke, she dropped the nails and hair into the cauldron. Small sparkling flames shot up as they hit the smoke. “Bettina Andrea Campbell was ours in life, as she is ours in death. Her bargain with the dark is null, void; she was not given what she had bargained for.” The Maiden stepped into the darkness, returning with a birdcage that held a dove. Reaching into the cage, the Crone pulled out the dove and held it to the sky. “Her soul is ours. Here and now, I offer you sacrifice.” She snapped the dove's neck. 

As the Crone laid the dove outside the stone circle, she said, “You who are none of ours, this is yours. Payment is made in full. We owe you nothing.” The dove vanished. 

When the Crone returned to the circle, the Maiden removed the veil, revealing Betty Campbell's face. In silence, the three women moved to the Mother-stone. The Maiden, at the right of the stone, passed the veil through the hole to the Mother who stood behind the stone and to its left. The Mother then stepped forward to the front of the stone and passed the veil through the stone to the Crone, who stood behind the stone and to its right. The Crone passed the veil to the Maiden, who had moved behind the stone and to its left. They continued their dance-like pattern until the veil had been passed through the stone nine times. “It is finished,” they chanted as one.


End file.
